


Eyes of Ice and Fire

by Lyona



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 20:51:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9843572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyona/pseuds/Lyona
Summary: Sansa's affliction was not so easily dealt with.





	

Robb worried Sansa. 

She would've been terrified when she'd learned she was pregnant, if she could feel anything anymore. At eight-and-ten she'd learned to expect the worst. The monster had left her with more than scars, but had also inflicted upon her a lifelong reminder of every cruelty he’d done to her. He’d planted his seed inside her, and by the cruelty of the gods, it had taken root. A reminder, always. Even in death Ramsay Bolton still haunted her.

She'd put up a wall as soon as she found out, putting on the face she hadn't donned since she was four-and-ten, suffering in King's Landing. She hid her agony with smiles, and well-timed blushes. No one noticed, for which she was grateful. But sometimes she'd catch Jon's gaze lingering on her for a long moment, worry apparent on his honest face, and panic would grip Sansa. She couldn't tell him. Not yet, not now - not  _ever._

Sansa knew what she had to do, and went to the woman in Winter Town that servant girls spoke of, who had a brew to "cure" such a disease. But Sansa already knew of it - Shae's teachings had not been forgotten. But the girls' words soothed her anyway; Sansa could not think of it as a pregnancy, thought of it as a sickness to be cleansed of. It saddened her a little, too. Some of the girls she remembered from when she was small, to think they knew of the tea, and how they spoke of it, made Sansa wonder if all the Bolton men were monsters by nature. Her thoughts hardened her resolve; she'd made Ramsay a promise, after all. 

There could never be Bolton blood roaming the North again. 

Sansa went and acquired the moon tea, feeling cold. She felt the finality in her every movement, and it gave her strength. She was sure she would feel guilt, but she felt nothing but the same frigid satisfaction she'd felt as Ramsay's hounds - one for each girl - tore into his deceptively handsome face. 

But later that night as she smelled the bitter aroma, she thought of her mother and father. Of her brothers. And of the girl she used to be, who’d dreamt of sons with auburn hair and blue eyes - of a girl who looked like Arya. 

She shook with the sudden onslaught of memories; Robb, handsome and tall, ruffling Bran's hair, Arya running after Jon, little Rickon on Theon's shoulders.

Her face grew wet, her limbs shook, she felt so safe, but she was still so lost - she couldn't hear Ghost's howling anymore. The angry sounds of screaming and glass shattering jolted her back into reality. The teapot lay in chards on her parents' floor, her throat ached. 

She stumbled back onto her bed, the same bed she would creep into as a child, when the wind howled too loudly. She stared sightlessly at the ceiling, and thought, perhaps if she took her own life, along with the beast inside her, it wouldn’t feel like such a grave sin.

Then she thought of Jon, her only family. The man she unwillingly grew to love more than just a brother - he was more than that now. He was everything, he was all she had left in the world. She thought of leaving Jon alone. Jon, the man who had looked at her like she was a gift from the gods, the day she wound up at his door. Who never wanted her to be anyone but who she was. The man who she'd barely spared a thought to as a child, who loved her anyway without doing anything to deserve it, who'd wrapped her up and held her like there was nowhere he'd rather be. 

Jon; the man who felt like  _home._

The mere thought of betraying Jon - who'd brought beautiful happiness back into her world of death and violence - in such a irrevocable way made her ill, brought tears to her eyes, and so she lay in her bed, and slept. A slight madness took over her, and she resolutely ignored her newfound horror in silence.

Everyday she played her part as Lady of Winterfell, and she played it well. No one suspected, she made sure she was quiet while retching, and she pricked her finger on her sheets once a moon in case her maids were talkative. She hemmed her own dresses, as she typically did. But she made new ones, with flowing skirts, hiding her rapidly changing body well. Soon, of course, it became not so easily hidden. 

Her belly began to round out a moon or two after her horrible realization.

_The monster’s welp._

She didn't tell Jon, exactly, so much as Jon discovered her. One uncomfortable transition from life as Lord Commander at Castle Black to King in Winterfell was that it was typically expected to knock before entering one's chambers, especially a lady's. Any other time, Sansa would have playfully chastised him, but as it was he'd walked in absentmindedly, ranting about some Lord, until he choked on his words. 

Sansa was too stunned to cover herself, her nightdress pooled at her feet, naked as her name day. The evidence was damming. Jon had stammered, seemingly unable to say anything but her name. He shook violently as he spun around, slipping his Stark cloak off and blindly handing it to her as he faced away, as gallant as any man could be. Sansa had hastily slid it around her body, her heart hammering in her chest.

"Jon, I'm...I'm so sorry," she rasped. Jon spun around on his heel, forgetting her nudity as he crossed the space between them. He looked like he was at war with himself; half angry, half broken. His grey eyes locked on hers with an intensity that made her tremble, as he took her face firmly in his hands. 

" _You're_ sorry? Sansa...Oh _gods..._ " His eyes clouded with tears, crushing her to his chest like he'd done moons ago. And _gods_ she could breathe again. She never knew when she was drowning, when she was gasping for breath, until Jon pulled her to the surface. 

Jon cried the tears she couldn’t bring herself to shed. He’d held her, face buried in her auburn hair. She kissed the tears from his cheeks as he wept for her. He apologized, over and over, for not saving her, for not protecting her, for not _knowing_. 

She couldn't bare it anymore - Jon should never apologize to her. He'd given her everything, he _was_ everything. He would never be able to know what he was to her, but she would spend her life trying to show him.

She’d silenced him with a kiss, whispering against his lips,

“You did save me, Jon. You brought me back from the dead.” Jon gaped at her, eyes wide, and there was a moment they spent in silence, sharing breath, before he claimed her lips with his own.

When he took her to bed that night, he was so gentle. Asking with every movement, _Is this alright?_ and with every gasp _Do you want to stop, love?_ And she didn’t. Sansa thought she’d never want a man’s touch again, but with Jon, she felt as though a lifetime’s worth of pain was gone with every kiss, every caress. He had a indescribable ability to breathe life back into her. She thought, perhaps the gods gave her Jon to repent for the horror she'd endured. Maybe they'd given her to him for the same reason.

It felt like no sin, but a blessing. And even if it was a sin, perhaps a sin in the name of love was one that could be forgiven. With the smile Jon gave her after, she thought perhaps he agreed. 

But they did not seek each other out that way again. Sansa hated it, hated the guilty way Jon deliberately did not look her in the eye. She couldn’t bare it, felt like the one ray of sun she’d felt warm her in years had been blocked out. She felt empty, and - even worse - alone again. Maybe even more alone than before. She felt the beast inside her taking the last breaths of life from her, that Jon hadn’t taken when he left her chambers that night. That he continued to take with every glance he cast her way. Sansa cursed the gods she did not believe in - for what deity would do this, do  _any_ of  _this?_

 

*

 

Through all the horror of her life, through her father’s death, her brother and mother’s murder, to _the monster,_ something essential was taken, something in her had given up. She was no longer Sansa Stark - she was nothing. Then Jon came back into her life, enveloped her and saved her from the hell her world had become, only to be taken away again. But then it happened; the gift from the gods that she hadn't known she'd been praying for. Jon wasn’t her brother. He was her aunt’s son - Rhaegar Targaryen's - under the guise of a Stark as to protect him from Robert Baratheon’s wrath. A Targaryen prince. 

Jon had gone to her after. After the Queen had come to the North with her dragons, after Jon and Daenerys had ridden them North beyond the wall - Jon riding the green one, _Rhaegal,_ for his father - and they'd saved them all, the one prayer Sansa had allowed herself since she was a girl. And they’d _listened,_ through all the agony, the gods had finally answered her prayers. Despite it all, Sansa felt light and happy in a way she thought herself no long capable of.

Sansa’s belly was still somewhat hidden by her flowing gowns, but movements had begun. She sat in her chambers in front of the fire, smiling softly and humming to herself. She hadn’t allowed herself any joy in months, and there she was, humming a song she thought she’d forgotten. 

Then the door to her chamber opened suddenly, banging against the wall as Jon rushed to her side, still in his black Targaryen armor - like his father's from Sansa's favorite songs - and with the Stark cloak she'd given him, albeit slightly singed. He knelt beside her - covered in snow and ash - and without preamble kissed her passionately, fingers running through her auburn hair. She laughed against his lips, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. 

“Marry me. Marry me, Sansa,” he choked out, gasping for breath, hands still entangled in her fiery locks. She smiled, the grin threatening to split her face, as her eyes welled with tears. She gasped and laughed, pushing off the chair, causing both of them to fall to the floor in a tumble of limbs. She kissed his face all over, and her answer was clear. Jon laughed and laughed along with her, returning her kisses with fervor. He put a hand on her belly, and suddenly Sansa stilled, her smile dying on her lips. She tried to get off Jon, rising up onto her elbows, but he kept her in place, sprawled above him. She looked down at him sadly, 

“Jon...We can't-”  Jon smiled gently, pulling her down again for a kiss, before leaning back, his voice strong and absolute,

“I will claim it, the babe will be mine - ours, Sansa. Not- it will be a Stark. Not a Targaryen, not a -“ She cut him off with a gentle kiss, lowering herself back onto him. 

They stayed there with their joy and tears until the fire had long died out. 

They were married in the Godswood within a fortnight, a small affair. Sansa felt like she was in a dream _._ Even as the babe kicked inside her as Jon pledged himself to her, and her to him, she could no longer feel dread. For, this babe would be hers and Jon’s. Jon would raise him beside her, teach him to be a man. A good man.

It was that thought that jarred her, as the looked to the heart tree her father would often bring her to, and she smiled. She felt it in her heart, their child would be a boy. 

_Give him the kindness of his father,_ she prayed. _Let him grow tall. Let him know love and sweetness, and a far better life than I endured before his father delivered me._

A chill blew through the Godswood, and Sansa shook. _Please, let him be a true Stark._  

 

*

 

The birth was long and horrible. Sansa had held her screams and tears at bay for _years,_  but as soon as the first jolt of pain hit her, she let go. She screamed, and she fought. Jon sat behind her in the bed, holding both her hands tightly. 

When a shrill little cry filled the room, Sansa fell back against her husband, laughing with him, as tears fell down her cheeks.

“It is a boy, Your Grace," Sam said, beaming. Sansa smiled as they cleaned her boy and placed him in her arms. 

He was so small, although Sam and the midwives told her he was large for a newborn. He had a tuff of auburn hair, still damp enough to look brown, but she knew better. Jon stroked his tiny head softly, tears in his eyes, and told him how much they loved him. Then the babe looked up at her, and his eyes made Sansa’s heart stop.  They were a cool grey, too light to be Stark eyes. 

Sansa wept some more.

 

*

 

Robb worried Sansa. 

He grew tall, taller than Jon or Sansa by the time he was five-and-ten. He had a head of thick auburn curls, and his eyes were sharp, but kind. Her prayers were answered, and he did know love. He was a very strong willed boy, passionate in all his emotions. When he loved, he loved wholly, with everything he had. Robbie and his sister, Lyanna - Jon and Sansa’s only daughter, who looked as much like Jon as Robb looked like Sansa - were inseparable. They ran about Winterfell like wildlings, forever trying to gray their poor mother. Their little brother Ned, so quiet and sweet, trailing behind them as soon as he was able to walk. Yes, when Robb loved he _loved._ A trait he shared with his sister. 

So when their beautiful princess was seven-and-ten - Robb twenty - and fell for a wildling boy, Robb took it upon himself to welcome his new brother into their family. Robb and Viktor got along swimmingly, to the extent where Sansa was a little speculative of her famously protective son’s motives. Jon found it very amusing, watching Robb argue with Viktor at meals, with Lya laughing at them. 

A week before Viktor and Lyanna’s wedding, Viktor was discovered to have gotten a bastard on a whore he'd been lying with in Winter Town. Jon was furious, and Lyanna heartbroken. Robb seemingly found it all quite amusing, drunkenly exclaiming at dinner how Viktor was simply practicing for the “big night” to come. Jon sighed at his son’s vulgar comments, but Sansa watched him, as she always did. 

Robb’s wildling friends, Tormund’s sons, laughed along with him. But Sansa could see the coldness in her eldest’s eyes. The resolve in them made her shiver. She saw how he'd always looked at Viktor, calculating, and the smiles he gave him were not unlike an animal toying with its prey. Jon did not see it, but he also hadn’t known Ramsay as she had. She’d always found it very easy to read her son, and never before had she seen any signs of him in Robb. But she saw it - that... _look_ in his eyes.

So when Viktor disappeared one night, and a body was found flayed and decapitated, Sansa stomach lurched. But as she heaved up the contents of her stomach, she couldn’t force herself to be surprised. However, the nature of it was too familiar. Perhaps Robb knew more than he let on. 

Lyanna knew what her brother had done. Sansa saw it in the way she found Robb’s eyes when she was informed of her intended's death. She knew, and loved him no less for it. Truly, it looked as if she loved him more.

Sansa never asked him, but she knew. Jon didn't discuss it with her, perhaps too afraid to voice his thoughts. A few days after Viktor’s body was found, she heard voices as she walked through the Godswood. She listened, and immediately recognized her children’s voices.

“You didn’t have to be so cruel, Robbie.” Her daughter said, Robb scoffed,

“He deserved it. He deserved it for what he’d done to you. He dishonored you - he broke your heart," a heavy, shaky sigh. "And don't think I don't know about...I saw him, that night. I saw him hit you...I saw...” Sansa heard a rustling of clothes, like he’d pulled her into an embrace, or Lyanna had pulled him into one. When Robb spoke, his voice was hoarse, with tears or rage, Sansa didn't know. Perhaps both.

“He didn’t deserve you. No one does. I’d do it again - do it to anyone who hurts you, Lya. I swear to you, no one will dare to hurt you again. Or I will…” His voice lowered into a growl, sounding more wolf than man, “I will make them forget anything that isn’t pain - I will make them regret it - by my whole heart, I swear it.” Lyanna sighed, exasperated but fond. It alarmed Sansa a little, she heard it everyday, but to hear it now...

“It’s not very princely to be so bloodthirsty, you know.” Robb chuckled, 

“Well, I guess I’m not a true prince.” Lyanna laughed.

Robb didn’t.

 

 *

 

That night in the Great Hall, Sansa could barely take her eyes off her son, but the icy dread in her heart was slowly warmed away as she saw him make his sister and brother laugh. Yes, he was capable of more than it would seem, which made her stomach churn to dwell on. But perhaps it was the best that could be expected of a child born in winter. But there was no ice in his veins, he was not an unfeeling monster - quite the opposite. There was fire in his veins, and in the coldness of his eyes, which had once reminded Sansa of the monster, now seemed to have a likeness to no other. There was passion in them, unparalleled ferocity, not the cool, terrifying calm that Ramsay’s had held. 

Ramsay held no claim on Robb, she told herself, over and over again as she turned over restlessly in bed that night, with Jon sleeping beside her. He was their son, not his. Robb was loved, and loved them in return. He was kind, and loved his siblings, and always badgered his father for stories about the Queen’s dragons. He was loud, and loved to laugh. He was no monster.

Sansa could hear the ‘but’ in her thoughts, and stopped herself, rolling over in her bed. She chose not to think on Lyanna’s would-be husband. Thought again, that perhaps, a sin in the name of love was one that could be forgiven. She knew her son was good. A kind boy at his core who would grow to be a kind man, a good man like his father. But…

Sansa worried.

**Author's Note:**

> I picture Robb looking like this hot mf http://lildemonsemen.tumblr.com/post/77851184819


End file.
